


Our Little Corner of Hell

by DaLaRi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abbadon's Death Never Happened, And I Really Mean It About The Hurt No Comfort Tag, Angst, Demon!Dean, Hell Fic, Hurt No Comfort, Long live the Queen, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:27:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaLaRi/pseuds/DaLaRi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last time the Winchesters die, their souls are pulled down to Hell.<br/>Two centuries later, Castiel is captured and sent to join them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Little Corner of Hell

Castiel sees the blade sink into Dean’s chest, hears his heart stutter and die as it's punctured and torn, the blade giving a _snick_ as its slides neatly between his fith and sixth rib. As he feels Dean's soul go cold, he screams, struggling against the demons that hold him, but he has fallen too far. Simple black-eyed demons can restrain him without difficulty. At this point, he’s almost human. He shoves himself forward, still screaming Dean’s name, and when Abaddon pulls the blade free, he lunges towards her, both arms popping from their sockets. He slumps to the ground, the scream dying in his throat as the pain finally registers. Abaddon walks over to him and holds his head up so he can watch as Dean collapses on top of Sam’s cooling corpse.

“So much for the Winchesters.”

Castiel can only watch as she grasps their souls, claiming them before even Tessa can. His feeble noises of protest are ignored, and he knows better than to draw attention to himself. Only after the others have left with the souls does she turn to him.

“I’ll give the Winchester enough time to break, and then I’ll come back for you. I’m sure Dean will have so much fun tearing your wings from your back.”

\----------

This time, it takes Dean a century and a half to break. He is assigned to teach the newcomers how to torture. With Alastair gone, he is the most skilled torturer and in a sense, he’s the prodigal son, returned from a stint in the daylight. He forgets himself, and soon he is nothing more than black smoke held together by a memory of a human form. The only part of him that refuses to change is a white handprint that refuses to darken, no matter how many souls he carves into. He forgets Earth, and his life fades into the screams of the rack and the glowing of hellfire. He almost forgets there is an outside world. At least, until he’s assigned the angel.

Usually only the Fallen are allowed to torture the angel, but Abaddon has been impressed by Dean’s work with the tougher souls. He's met and exceeded his quota consistently for the past sixty-five years.

The Angel is legendary in the inner circle of torturers. It is rumoured that his own kin sent him here for releasing the devil. For some reason this strikes Dean as odd; if the angel was an enemy of his kin, wasn’t he supposed to be a friend of theirs? The other torturers had been happy to answer.

“Because that’s Castiel! He’s the reason why the angels turned against us. He was responsible for more demon deaths than all other humans combined! Except, you know, the Winchesters. But they’re dead.”

Dean always declines to mention that, in life, he was one of "the Winchesters."

As such, it is an even greater honor to be called to torture the great demon-slayer. He'll be the envy of all his ‘friends’ if he's the one who gets The Angel to crack. And he's confident that he can. After all, who knows angels better than him?

\----------

He sees the wings long before he reaches his station. The angel is kept at the bottom of the Pit, but the enormous copper-black wings hold him dangling far above the ground. Three meat hooks puncture each wing, one at each main joint, and two in the back of the form itself, the feathers constantly held ablaze by teams of four demons on each side. Dean observes the burns, then shakes his head disdainfully. He looks down at the aide he’s been assigned, ruminating over the tools he has at his disposal. Abbadon has promised him anything he needed. He looks at the angel, white fire lighting up the inside of his head as the handprint flares, tearing a memory loose from his consciousness.

_When the oil burns, no angel can touch or pass through the flames or he dies._

He straightens, snarling at his aide, who had stooped to see what was wrong. The demon flinches back, and Dean grins wolfishly.

“Holy oil and a paintbrush. Now.”

The demon scurries off as Dean continues down the steps, cataloguing every cut and burn and scar. There are surprisingly few, surprising seeing as the Angel has been tortured almost exclusively by the Fallen over the past century. The Fallen should know how to torture one of their own.

By the time he reaches the platform where his tools are held, he's seen enough. Almost as a second thought, he stops to look at the poor creature’s face. Dark, blood-caked hair covers the forehead, and wide-set eyes accompy a straight nose and bow lips. Blood trickles from the nose and mouth, and long gashes trace the defined cheekbones. Dean scoffs at the handiwork. The cuts had obviously been done with shaking hands. He's going to need to demonstrate the proper technique.

_What a masterpiece I'll make of you-_ His reverie is interrupted by the return of his aide, who drops the jug and paintbrush onto the table with a clatter. Another spike of pain licks its way through his skull.

_Where have you been?_

_Jerusalem._

_How was it?_

_Arid._

Fighting to keep his face impassive, Dean reaches for the ladder, leaning it on one of the cross-beams where the hooks’ chains are attached. The memories were usually just echoes, voices with no names or faces attached, memories that had refused to be carved out of him. Some days, he almost thinks about taking a scalpel to himself, just to make it _stop._

He stops halfway up the ladder and balances the jug on one of the rungs. With the paintbrush, he begins to coat the tops of the wings, allowing the oil time to soak through to the skin before moving on. Over the course of an hour, he coats each wing in holy oil, careful to use a cross-stroke in order to allow the down to become thoroughly drenched. Not once does the angel stir, his only response the goosebumps that arise whenever Dean's skin makes contact, less than a flinch, but more than enough to encourage him.

Dean insists on lighting the wings himself. He places the torch between the angel's shoulder blades, allowing each wing time to catch before standing back to view his handiwork.

The result is beautiful. The angel writhes, reaching bloodied arms to burning wings, hands coming away flaming. He makes no sound, and as he looked up, Dean sees the bloody, imprecise gashes that show that his vocal cords have been slit. Dean curses. He’d been looking forward to the screams. He allows the angel to roast for a while, watching as the flames turn white as they eat their way into arteries of Grace. He warms his hands over the crackling edges of the primaries, then returns to the platform with his tools. He walked up to the railing, and lifted the angel’s chin, forcing him to look him in the eye.

“Remember my face. Remember this pain. We have our own little corner of Hell now, and I know so many ways to torture an angel. You will rue the day you met the demon Dean Winchester.”

The angel's eyes, which had been closed in order to avoid Dean’s scarred visage, fly open. His mouth opens in a silent plea, and the eyes are full of pity and guilt. Dean flinches back as though struck.

_Blueeyesblueeyesblueeyes_

The handprint sears, the white of its glow complimenting the sterile white light of the fire of the angel's wings. Dean responds to the angel, a breach of professionalism unthinkable for most of his usual... patients.

“Don’t expect any help from me."

_Stand behind me-_

"You killed thousands of my kind."

_-the one time I ask._  

"I’ve heard smiting is painless."

_Like being chained to a comet._  

"Don’t expect your death to be.”

Dean forces back the memories, filling his mind with memories of bristone and blood and sulfur and  _carvecarvecarve watchthemburn dontgivethemthesatisfaction._

He turns to leave before looking back, his grin sharklike and his face thrown into shadow by the light of the fire.

“In fact, angel, you’re going to live forever if I have any say.”

He walks away, leaving the angel to burn.

He doesn’t see the single bloody tear that drips down the angel’s face.

He wouldn’t have cared if he had.


End file.
